


In My Dreams

by AsinineGallantry



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Gift!Fic, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, SO, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Stridercest - Freeform, Tags Are Fun, There was gonna be full sex but I fell asleep, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Wet Dream, attempted humor sort of, basically there's sleeping and there's sex and striders bitching, dave is a diva, i dunno, i'm not rereading this so idk what else there is, i'm trying not to remember, loads of swearing, some may consider it noncon, that's sleeping sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsinineGallantry/pseuds/AsinineGallantry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk has some trouble sleeping, and Dave goes above and beyond to help.  Just kidding.  Striders are jerks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd. It's also three AM, so it's barely even spell checked. And a weird format I don't usually use. *sigh* I need a beta.  
> This is kind of.... inspired by my own sleeping issues, though mine didn't turn out quite so nicely. There's some symbolic mumbo-jumbo but that's irrelevant. Let me know, I think I overdid the offensive Strider!jokes and also replaced Dirk with Dean a few times idk. Fat girl behavior is a real thing but I'm not sure what it is or why I know of it, so no judgment.  
> I have the plot written out so I could technically write a Dave version and clear up some unexplained things, but that's 90% not gonna happen. Be a dear and let me know of corrections, and I'll always love you.  
> The title's from an REO Speedwagon ballad that's way more sad than this fic warrants, yeah!!  
> Happy birthday, dirks!

What woke Dirk was not the initial impact of should to unforgiving floor, or even the unlikely angle at which his limbs had positioned themselves at the point of falling. No, what woke Dirk was the slow, vicious burn which pulled across his aching joints after hours of remaining in that godforsaken position.

His left arm, twisted unnaturally beneath his chest, was useless in lifting his body from the orange shag carpet, but not nearly as uncomfortable as the knot of cotton his tongue had formed.

Waking up always felt like this; creaky, uncooperative legs, a pounding headache, a bitter taste in his mouth like he had been chewing on a washcloth for the past several hours.  
The sensation still clung to Dirk's throat and sinuses when he pulled himself upright, good arm straining against his nightstand. The digital alarm clock displayed the ungodly hour at which he was so unfairly awoken, and Dirk heaved a sigh as he waited for feeling to return to his limbs.

 

Dave, Dirk found, was seated at his usual side of the kitchen table, in the same position Dirk left him in the night before. Even his posture hadn't changed; his eyes were locked on the papers spread haphazardly before him, hand frozen as he mulled over whatever plot inconsistency had his eyebrows knit so tightly.

“Your back's gonna hurt like a bitch,” Dirk told him, discreetly rubbing his still-numb right arm. He knew Dave probably didn't—and wouldn't—end up as sore as the Strider who fell out of bed like a newborn foal, but unlike Dirk, Dave brought it on himself. “Kind of like mine. Fell out of bed. Again,” he added, shortly.

A lot of people thought of Dave as the penultimate aloof cool guy (which couldn't be any farther from the truth: he's a total immature douchebag), but even Dirk's gaggle of school friends (who saw Dave on a regular basis) were floored by the completely real, single-mindedly-determined-to-overwork-himself asshole that Dirk saw every time a new movie proposal rolled in.

Dave grunted in acknowledgement and began to gnaw on his pencil in an obvious display of frantic concern. Huffing in a manner that he refused to admit was indignation, Dirk gave up on garnering sympathy and moved to survey the kitchen. As usual, the counter was piled high with a myriad of objects, only a few of which were actually of the typical kitchen variety. Finding no evidence of a meal prepared within the last week and unwilling to plunder the mess, Dirk elected to risk cooking his own breakfast.

“You want bacon?” he asked over the clatter of knives released when he opened the fridge. For a moment Dirk thought he had been ignored (yet again), but when he peered over his shoulder, his older brother met his gaze.

Dave looked conflicted for a moment. “...That's fat girl behavior.”

Dirk scoffed and rolled his eyes. Another trait he so graciously kept from the media was the eldest Strider's near-obsessive preoccupation with appearances, including maintaining his “girlish physique” (Dave's words, not Dirk's). Some of Dirk's earliest memories featured Dave, little red calorie-counting pocketbook in hand, always jotting down cheesy inspirational quotes and nutrition facts. The latest of Dave's diets came from some bullshit book; he got a free signed copy when he met the author at some schmoozing party several weeks before. Dirk wasn't so interested with what the program actually entailed—just another “self-help” book designed to prey on the self esteem of upper class broads—and he cared even less about his “after-party in the alleyway” Dave had had with said authoress (for some reason, he insisted on describing the experience in vivid detail) (Dirk tried to erase the conversation from his mind). The point was, Dave would spew the phrase whenever he was offered any sort of greasy food.

“Fine, whites then?” he asked, and Dave gave a noise of assent.

The taste and smell clinging to Dirk's mouth and nose had long since dissipated, but when the bacon began crackling in the frying pan, he took a deep breath and forgot all about it.

Dave muttered a low “thanks, man” when Dirk placed the plate as close to Dave's hand (without balancing it on a stack of papers) as possible, and cleared his own space across from his brother. They went about their activities in silence until Dave finally put his pen down. He buried his eggs in pepper and ketchup (Dirk didn't try to hide his grimace), and actually _waited_ until a particularly unappealing bite was chewed before he cleared his throat.

The air shifted a bit, felt a bit more tight with anticipation, and Dirk eyed Dave carefully.

“You're having trouble sleeping again?”

 

“You were like seven at the time, I honestly don't remember all that much.”

“So Mom and Dad knew?” Dirk watched Dave's inevitable sigh, a reluctant frown forming.

“Yeah... yeah, they knew,” Dave said. He looked resigned but truthful. “They tried a couple different things but nothing really worked.”

“So how did I stop? _When_ did I stop?” Somehow it had grown from a little conversation about Dirk's sleeping habits into something much bigger. He'd no proof that Dave was lying, so why did it feel like it?

“Look, bro, I don't really know.” Dirk couldn't tell if Dave was looking at him through his glasses. The oldest Strider rubbed the back of his neck and moved to shuffle a few papers into his briefcase. His effort to stand was deliberately slow, but to Dirk's surprise he edged closer. “I've gotta get to a meeting, man, but we'll talk about this later, okay? I'll ask around, maybe someone can get you a prescription or something.” When Dave ruffled his little brother's hair, Dirk began to wonder if he was looking too far into it. So it was a sensitive subject for Dave; most were when related to their parents in some way.

And what possible motive would he have to lie about Dirk's childhood sleeping issues? Dave was a good brother, and he made it a point to hide nothing about their parents.

“Suck it up, your mascara's running,” Dave shouted as he slunk out the door.

Dirk chucked his empty plate of bacon, narrowly missing Dave's left ear.

It was definitely all in his head.

 

Dirk broke through the wall of consciousness with a deep, gasping breath, torso lifting from his pillow in perfect mimicry of nearly every D-rank suspense film. Sweat coated his slim chest and neck, cooling his skin as he tossed his blanket off his body. Dirk scowled at the ceiling and lay back on his pillow.

He remembered, slowly, a particular conversation with Jake over Pesterchum the year prior. They had not-so-timidly broached the subject of erotic dreams: Jake had openly admitted to having them on an almost regular basis, from the blue women on which he was so determinedly fixated, to some of his real-life friends. He hadn't seemed reluctant to partake in graphic detail.

Dirk hadn't been so comfortable sharing his experiences, though not because he was ashamed of the people who starred in them. No, being embarrassed over his dreams would require an actual _dream_ over which to be embarrassed.

Staring down his body at the disobliging appendage, the younger Strider felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him. Partly because of his recent inability to achieve any sort of rest, but also due to the exasperation of waking up to an unexplainable, burdensome arousal.

Dirk had never—not once in his life—awoken from a dream of any nature, sexy or no. At least, if he had, he couldn't recall what had happened, and he wouldn't consider his descent into unconsciousness a “dream”. No, when Dirk slept he didn't see himself in a world where he could interact with figures from his life; rather, he _felt_ them. There was always a scent, a pleasant pressure flattening gently over his entire body, a world of sluggish krypton color and not much else. But sometimes it was stifling and hot, and the friction pulsed across his nerve endings like fire melding steel, pulsed straight down between his legs. It was on these nights, when the heat persisted until he just couldn't take any more, that Dirk found sleep impossible. The nights when he was suffocated by red and the slow, never-ending grinding of gears, his attempts at escape would end on his bedroom floor; the ones where he was certain he was to rupture from the inside out ended like this.

And when he managed to leave that state, his body and mind would inevitably start to duke it out—body too tired to move but head screaming that he _take care of it_. The course of action was to be left entirely to Dirk, be it taking a long (and cold) shower, or shoving his t-shirt between his teeth and roughly striping his cock dry.

Tonight it looked like the latter.

He brushed off the sheets clinging to his thighs and bit his lip, slowly sliding his hand down the center of his sweat-slick body. His pale skin rippled as he trailed down over his chest, his bellybutton, the curvature of his upper pelvis; closing in ever slowly on the hem of his boxers. As annoying as the dreams were, Dirk had to admit the anticipation they brought was unparalleled. Dirk raised his hips and rid himself of his only article of clothing, moaning as he was freed, and wasting no time in gripping the flushed clock tightly in his fist.

His own touch familiar, he slid his thumb lightly over the head; shivering, smearing the bubble of precome down and over his shaft. He moved without hesitation, long, quick jerks at just the right pressure, stifling his groans by sinking his teeth deep into his knuckles.

Dirk's conscious mind provided images his dreams did not, and above his pelvis he pictured lithe arms wired with muscle. The person's head bobbed relentlessly in time with Dirk's still-pumping hand, swallowing him greedily, the face unimportant.

Dirk forced his hips to remain static against the mattress, digging his teeth even further into the flesh. The figure growled hungrily and kneaded his ass with confident fingers, trapping the head of Dirk's cock in the warm confines of his throat.

Dirk sobbed when hands drew up his body, wishing he could feel the long red lines the figure drew with their fingernails, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth as he bit clear through his own skin.

Just as the figure's tongue—or rather, Dirk's hand—slid lazily over the highly sensitive zone on his underside, and his free hand drew back to the area below his balls, there was a rap on Dirk's bedroom door.

“Dirk, time to get up.” It was Dave's voice, and suddenly the imaginary partner between his legs was Dave too, his lips leaving Dirk's dick with an obscene _pop_. Dirk frantically halted his movements, determined not to blow his load to the sound of his brother's voice. But it was too little, too late; the only thing Dirk could do was bite down hard on his forearm to stop the resounding cry. His cock pulsed, splattering come up and down his stomach.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He pulled his eyebrows together with his fingers, the other hand wiping sticky jizz off on his mattress. “Shit. Fuck.” It sounded like Dave had already retreated to the kitchen, but Dirk wouldn't put it past his older brother to have stuck around for the feature presentation.

Dirk only gave himself 30 seconds to scream into his pillow, then shoved off the bed to perform a temporary high-speed body scrub. His bed could wait until later.

 

If Dave had heard his little brother whacking off in his bedroom, he gave no indication, instead standing with his hip pressed against the arm of the sofa. He ran his hand over his face then pinched the bridge of his nose. Dirk swallowed down the anxiety in his throat and tried not to freak out. “So, since my generosity knows no bounds and I'm pretty much the greatest older brother in the whole kingdom, I asked around...”

Dirk felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach. “And, uh...” Dave didn't look nervous or out of place; just like he wasn't sure how to word things (for once). “So when you were like eight you started having these—I dunno, mom called them 'episodes'—where you would fall out of bed or just basically be even more of a little shit than usual.” Dirk raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but Dave seemed encouraged. “You didn't start pulling the Houdini shit til later, after they started taking you to specialists.”

“ _Specialists_? What, like a shrink?” Dirk was more than a little surprised. Having no recollection of his sleeping issues was one thing, but he had no memories of talking to some suit about said problems.

Dave grunted and moved to sit fully on the arm rests, feet easily brushing the ground. He told Dirk everything he personally remembered: from a few not-so-innocent scares where Dirk managed to venture past his room, to unsuccessful trips to various doctors, and his parents' reluctance to attempt any sort of drug on the then-eight Dirk (“You were a wuss of a kid, I wouldn't have given you anything either.”).

“Wait, wait,” Dirk said, lost. He had long since moved to sit across from his brother on the coffee table, knees spread enough to clasp his hands between them. “So I asked you this before but getting you to answer something directly is like trying to walk into fucking Mordor.”

Dave's face was pinched, “Please tell me you're rereading the books and not going through a fucking meme phase, I can't fucking handle... Stop giving me that look, Jesus. I was getting to it.” Dirk's face was disbelieving. “I was trying to avoid it coming to this because it's weird as hell. So I asked around and got some contacts, talked to some colleagues, and we could get you in to talk to—”

“Sounds like that didn't work so well before.”

“—or we could try to get you on some kinda med—”

“By tonight?”

“— _fine_. Fine. Okay, there's listening to reason, or there's—“

“Or?”

“Just let me fin—“

“Or?”

 

“So, uh...”

“Yeah.”

They were in Dave's room, standing a respectable distance apart and mutually agreeing not to make eye contact. As it so happened, younger Dirk had been able to sleep after sharing his bed with his older brother, and that fact had brought them here.

Dirk had brought with him a pillow (“Like hell we're sharing.”) and Lil' Cal (“Like _hell_ you're bringing that thing in here.”), who he had placed on Dave's dresser. Deciding that they were going to have to move sometime, Dirk sighed and clambered onto the bed.

“I don't think so, bro, scoot over.” Dirk glared up at his brother from his barrier of blankets.

“What, you want this side?”

“Hell yes I want this side. This is my side and it will continue to be my side for the forseeable future. _My_ side, you little prick.”

Dirk let out a laugh. “Are you really getting all worked up over which side of the bed you're on? I wonder what News Weekly would think of this? This just in: 'Mastermind Behind Movie Sensation SBAHJ Throws Bitchfit Over Side of the Bed'. The tagline would read 'Homoerotic and Incestuous Love Scandal—'“

“Fuck. Man, you're making this weird,” Dave whined, looking close to stomping his feet.

“ _I'm_ making this weird?”

“Damn right you are; you brought your motherfucking puppet.”

Dirk wanted to protest—Lil' Cal doesn't like being called that. But that would probably just prove Dave's point.

“You know what? Fine,” Dirk hissed. “Take the fucking spot.”

But of course that didn't sit well with the older Strider's misled pride, and Dave crossed his arms stubbornly. “No, I don't care. You sleep there.”

Dirk pressed an arm across his forehead and groaned, exasperated. “You have got to be freaking kidding me.”

 

When they had finally settled into the bed (Dave had obligingly taken the other side but had pouted so hard for so long that Dirk made him switch) (His brother was a fully grown man-child), Dave had been quick to fall asleep, but the younger Strider was not so lucky. It was certainly not uncomfortable here in his brother's bed (though it was a bit awkward); the comforter was an obnoxious coral pink, but the sheets were far more comfortable than Dirk's polyester disaster of a bed.

And it wasn't all that strange to share a bed with Dave. It was big enough, so it wasn't like they were actually touching, and even if they had been, years of wrestling and strifes had rendered touching part of the package of being a Strider. Not to mention they were both clothed below the waist, and Dave's weight pulling down the opposite side of the mattress was warm and almost comforting.

Dirk had always been unusually close to his brother; the two of them had been attached at the hip since practically birth. Sharing a bed wasn't quite the novel experience some part of him acknowledged it should be.

What was keeping Dirk from sleep was the promise of what was to come. The bed was cozy, warm, smelling of metal and Dave, but what frightened Dirk was the way the air caught his nostrils as he breathed. The room was dim, the air thin, colors bleeding together beneath his eyelids. He had never felt this way before; like the world had stopped just to cradle his body as it drifted into unconsciousness.

“Man, go to sleep,” Dave grumbled, not bothering to turn around.

“Shut up,” Dirk retorted, and that was all he needed to fall into slumber.

 

  
Surprisingly, the next couple of weeks involved some of the best sleep Dirk had ever not dreamed about.

“I don't feel like I went two rounds with King Kong,” he told Dave over breakfast, three days into the experiment. Dave had, in turn, smirked through his bite of cereal, pleased but tired, and that morning had been Dirk's first clue.

 

Dave had always been frustratingly oblique—the man would bitch and moan for years over the slightest inconvenience, but should he ever face a real-life problem, he would clam up and refuse to talk seriously. This always drove Dirk, the more straightforward of the Striders, up the wall, especially since he _knew_ something was wrong, despite Dave's arguments to the contrary.

He tried to bring the topic up once, after Dave had returned from work and had settled into his routine of watching cheesy Disney shows with a bowl of unbuttered popcorn. “You're watching too much Supernatural, man,” Dave had uttered in retaliation to the subject, mouth full of half-chewed food, “turning everything into a big queer sobfest.” Of course Dave would go for the jugular, but Dirk would not be deterred.

The fact of the matter was, while their new setup was certainly beneficial to the number of useful hours of sleep Dirk experienced, it had quite obviously had the opposite effect on Dirk's older brother. Dave looked more exhausted than he had in years—since the move following the death of their parents and his subsequent efforts to enter the moviemaking scene. Dirk didn't know why Dave refused to talk about it; it wasn't like it was particularly difficult to notice the bags beneath his eyes or his failing posture under the strain of exhaustion. Dirk would venture to guess that his brother hadn't had a proper night's sleep in weeks, which unsurprisingly coincided with the beginnings of this little experiment.

“I dunno man, you look like you're gonna collapse,” Dirk told the elder Strider, lifting a handful of his own (buttered) popcorn. Dave, predictably, rolled his eyes and pressed the volume button up a few notches.

“Shut up or I'm turning off Hannah Montana.”

Dirk glued his lips together and focused his eyes on the screen. Dave hated this show, and would only willingly watch with Dirk when he was feeling particularly giving—another hint in favor of Dirk's argument—and Dirk had been enjoying watching. He liked that Hannah herself (well, Miley) had a horse, and that episode where the horse talked had Dirk crying like a bitch. His favorite was the incompetent older brother, much to the chagrin of Dave (“He's like 35, do you have any idea how creepy that is?”), and the B-plot of this episode followed his reluctant following of the scrawny little rich boy's nefarious plot.

But Dirk noticed when Dave breathed out a low, long breath, closing his eyes against the glow of the television, and he couldn't help but feel just a little wrong.

 

That night, under a blanket of smokey-white sleep fog, Dirk had a dream.

Maybe it couldn't be considered a legitimate dream, since he was decidedly aware that he was, in fact, asleep, but it was the first time he had experienced anything of the sort.

He was standing in the doorway facing the living room, fingers clenched lazily around the familiar curve of a katana, lax posture not betraying the blood pumping through his veins like liquid fire.

The air smelled harsh, like sweat and blood, suffocating and deliciously cerise, clenching his stomach.

Dave slunk into view, shirt dripping with accumulated sweat, the smirk on his face a clear invitation:

“Come at me, bro,” he said, and Dirk snorted with derision as he spun his sword deftly in his hand.

Dirk was fast—getting faster every day—but it would probably be a long time before he could compete with Dave, and he doubted he could best his older brother in a strife of brawn (as demonstrated by his losing all but a few spontaneous wrestling matches).

What Dirk had was strategy and whip-quick reflexes, not to mention an intimate knowledge of his opponent. And while this information had yet to prove exceedingly useful in real life brawls, _this_ was certainly not real life. _Dirk_ made the rules here.

So of course Dirk saw the brief, almost unnoticeable shift in Dave's footing; his right foot gave way to allow him to keep his balance, alerting Dirk to anticipate his older brother's next strike. The younger Strider moved accordingly, springing forward to mirror the attack, dropping his weight deep into his heel and grinning as the swords met. The sharp clang of metal was music to Dirk's ears, and he used Dave's own momentum to catapult him away. Dirk heard rather than saw the clatter as the weapon fell from his older brother's hands.

Dave refused to be the only one without a blade, however, and he kicked out his leg in an easy, practiced sweep. Dirk fell like a ton of bricks, ass hitting the floor at the worst possible angle. His grip on his weapon slackened just long enough for Dave to punt it out of his grasp.

Suddenly Dave's body covered the length of his own, lithe and crimson and smelling of burning.

It felt like burning, too, the most pleasant burning imaginable; Dirk's flesh was on fire, he was hot and red like a coal being prodded into ignition.

“Hot,” he said, glowing, nearly burst into flame at Dave's responding grin. “Hot.”

Dave, unexpectedly obliging, was suddenly lacking the shirt he had previously donned. The switch had been almost too quick to be natural, though Dirk found it difficult to complain at the miles of muscled flesh pressed taut against his own—oh, hey, his clothes had vanished too.

Dave chose not to speak, his face so close to his brother's they breathed the same air, instead running a hand roughly down the planes of his brother's torso. Dirk's following moan and the way his body reacted in kind, arching deeply into the hand as it dipped ever lower, was a direct result of the hot metal flame it scorched into his skin.

Every inch it touched strained for an encore; everywhere Dave wasn't touching was screaming in protest. Dave dropped his chin, biting a trail from Dirk's collarbone to the line of his jaw.

Dirk moaned, stretched tightly, and cried out in approval. His body urged him forward in search of purchase—some kind of friction—and he found it somewhere in the lower regions of his brother's body. He was on fire, his body blackening from the strain, and only this would put out the flame, he was sure of it.

Dave reciprocated eagerly, shifting so whatever Dirk was grinding against was in the perfect position—just right—and covered his mouth when he let out a low keen. Dirk bit down none too gently on the fingers, Dave growling in response, and the younger Strider could not take it anymore.

His hands immediately on the gentle curve of his brother's ass, sliding down to cup, to feel, and then his whole body jerked forward, effectively trapping Dave's pelvis between Dirk's arousal and his greedy fingers. He pressed just hard enough that he could move in tight little gyrations, stoking the flames until they licked at the edges of his vision. Dave was groaning, holding back, breath stunted through his bared teeth.

Dirk was so close he could feel it; to what no longer mattered, what mattered was the hot stench of arousal building like a slow destruction, like any minute his body would collapse into Dave's and they would explode.

And then it was over, and Dirk was out of breath and alone in Dave's bed.

 

Dave wasn't in the house when Dirk maneuvered his leaden limbs into action. Even so, the atmosphere was thick and scentless, and Dirk's stomach clenched as though kneaded.  
He returned to Dave's room, pulling Lil' Cal over his shoulder and grabbing his pillow.  
Something told Dirk that Dave had been present, had witnessed every moment of his dream, and Dirk couldn't bear the thought. He pushed it out of his mind as best he could, trying to think of anything else but the fucking situation he had gotten himself into.

Exhaustion coursed through him. This whole ordeal had ended up causing more harm than good, and he wished he could just put it all behind him. The past few weeks had obviously been hard on Dave for whatever reason, without his little brother's stupid crisis on top of it, and while Dirk appreciated the rest, it wasn't worth all the awkwardness and miscommunication.

Dirk punched a number angrily into his phone and brought it to his ear. If Dave wasn't going to stick around for the inevitable horror show, then neither was he.

 

When Dirk returned, lightheaded and pleasantly woozy from tequila, Dave was planted in front of the TV. He was leaning forward, watching intently with his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands.

“Hey.” Dirk's mouth felt thick and dry, and he had to push the word out with effort not to slur.

“Nice try, Lindsay, but I think you had one too many appletinis.” Dave didn't seem angry—Dirk didn't expect him to be. He hadn't, however, expected him to sound so tired, resigned. “Sorry I disappeared this morning. I got called in to work.”

So now Dirk was drunk _and_ confused. Had he screwed them both over with his stupid kinky dreams or just jumped to conclusions? “Oh,” he said, and Dave gave him an odd look.

It split into a grin as he remarked, “Besides, you know I don't do the whole morning after thing.”

That was all it took for Dirk to wind up face-first on the floor. Literally.

Dave watched him fight to stand from the couch, looking as though at any moment he would burst into laughter. “Man, you didn't drive, right?”

Dirk scowled. So maybe he had overestimated his tolerance a little; he was not drunk enough to be an idiot. He just hadn't been fucking prepared for _that_ particular comment.

“Roxy called me a cab,” he grunted, rubbing at his now-sore shoulder. He begrudgingly dropped to the couch beside Dave, careful to leave a good inch or six between their thighs.

“Good.” And, after a beat, “I'm really sorry man.” He looked him straight in the eyes, utterly serious, and Dirk's heart dropped down into his pelvic region. Dave licked his lips. “But it's flattering to know I can make your knees weak, Princess.”

“Fuck you,” Dirk retorted over Dave's laughter, his intestines in knots.

 

Two weeks passed relatively normally; Dave had seemed somewhat surprised at Dirk's abrupt departure, but not opposed to the old sleeping arrangement. Even if Dave was just fooling around like usual, and hadn't been molested by Dirk in his sleep, the younger Strider wasn't going to risk a second encounter.

While it was true that things had returned to (mostly) normal—early breakfast, Dave's two-mile run, school and work, usually a strife with Dave, dinner in front of the television, and chatting with friends on Pesterchum until midnight—Dirk couldn't stop the nagging feeling that followed him everywhere.

Like Dave would look at him one day and spontaneously realize his younger brother had come uncomfortably close to ruining his bedsheets over thoughts of him. An even smaller part of Dirk wondered what would happen if Dave were to find out; Dirk wouldn't be surprised (or even opposed) at being kicked out or at least getting his ass handed to him.

And then there was the sick part of Dirk that wondered, _what if he wasn't freaked out about it?_

But that thought was quickly stifled by a truckload of guilt along with a sprinkling of horror and shame. If you asked Dirk, this whole thing was sick—abnormal—and the sooner he forgot about it, the better.

  
But evidently Dirk's subconscious disagreed.

His body seized involuntarily, and he was once again in the blazing state between alertness and slumber. He could feel something wet and warm drag over his chest, his tightening nipple, his heaving neck. It was over as soon as it had begun, then came crashing back like a tide of lava over his body.

Time sludged forward, painfully uneven, and Dirk couldn't comprehend the order of events, or even how to move his heavy arms and legs. Everything was unfocused and confusing, no ground to cling to.

But then Dirk caught his footing. He still wasn't sure where he was, what was going on; all he knew was assuredly, blinding real was the swipe of a tongue from the base to the very tip of his sensitive cock.

Dirk was catapulted into reality, desire emanating from every atom in his body. This was significantly different from every dream Dirk had had before, and all he could think was how desperately he wanted it _not_  to stop. He wouldn't let it. He anchored his arms into the mattress, refusing to move them.

He gritted his teeth, eyes rolling back into his head when Dave—it was Dave, of that much he was sure—accepted nearly all of Dirk's length into his mouth and throat, nose pressing firm into Dirk's pelvis, and when he could go no further, _sucked_ until the ensuing suction approached pain.

The noise that erupted from Dirk's throat was mortifyingly animalistic. His body moved of its own accord, hips hitching forward, hands clenching desperately at the sheets.  
Dirk bit down on the insides of his cheeks, and pulled himself tight so he wouldn't lose control.

He was hot, burning once more, but this time it was vivid, clear.

  
 _This time_ he was made of fire and only Dave could tame the flames, though the inferno only intensified when Dave's blunt nails scraped unceasingly from his chest to his hipbones.

 _This time_ it left marks, welting and red and pulsing, threatening to spill over.

 _This time_ Dirk could feel it; pain and pleasure mingling in impossible increments, and he couldn't imagine how it could get any better.

Dirk nearly swallowed his tongue, because then Dave's hand was urging his hips upward. Dirk complied instantly, dizzy, and let out a groan when a large hand slid down into the crack of his ass, thumbing his most intimate area.

He was aware, suddenly, of the world around him; the sheets crinkling under his torso, the sweat dripping over his body and pooling in all its crevices. He knew, too, of Dave's curious fingers pressing against his opening, and he couldn't stop himself from catching a glimpse. Forcing his protesting muscles into action, he adjusted just enough to see Dave. Dave, hair remarkably disheveled, clothed only in sweatpants, right hand clutching loosely at Dirk's throbbing dick, and sunglasses-free eyes focused, intense. His left hand ran gentle circles around the rim of Dirk's asshole, and he looked as though he couldn't stop for the world. Dave's lower lip was torn to shreds, caught between his teeth, and he ground his hips down into the edge of the bed desperately.

Dirk's eyes crossed then thanks to Dave's clever hand (he wasn't sure whether it was the right or left), and he shouted out his release.

For a moment, all he could see was a flash of red irises. Then it all went black.

 

The next few nights were all the same, an endless blur of desire and release, and every morning Dirk awoke to Dave acting as if nothing had happened.

Half of Dirk appreciated this fact; it wasn't like he _wanted_ to talk to Dave about what was going on, and it was almost a relief to just go with the flow. Talking about it would make it real, as though there wasn't enough evidence to support it already. But at the same time, he knew that nothing good could come of having sex—even really, really fantastic sex—with his older brother. Well, okay, _Dirk_ was certainly coming.

There was the other problem: Dirk was the _only_ one coming.

He hadn't noticed at first, seeing as most nights he collapsed in a pile of sweaty limbs and fell right asleep, but after a while he caught on. Dave was all too eager to get Dirk off (with his mouth, his fingers, his lips, _his tongue_ ), but not once had Dave finished himself.

And who knows, maybe Dave was slinking off and jerking alone in his room, but Dirk got the feeling that when he ran off, sweatpants still intact, he would mope and try desperately to ignore it. It definitely seemed like a Dave thing to do.

So when Dirk, having awoken prematurely, felt the hand caressing the skin where his boxers had previously been, he moved his foot discreetly, brushing Dave's erection with his heel.

Dave hissed as though bitten, a noise suspiciously like a whimper escaping his mouth, and pointedly moved his groin out of Dirk's reach.

The night commenced otherwise normally, though Dirk found himself inexplicably angry. The feeling only grew when Dave left the room, silent as ever, and he stared at the ceiling until he reluctantly fell asleep.

The morning after, when the smell of waffles wafted into his room, Dirk stomped into the kitchen with a small tube in his hand. His brother was already seated and digging in, eyes downcast and obviously not in the mood to talk.

He dropped the tube into Dave's lap, and the older Strider looked up at him, stunned. For a brief instant, Dirk wondered if this whole thing had just been in his fucking head, that he was going crazy.

But Dave was blushing, too, and as he peered at Dirk over his tool glasses, Dirk realized that he wouldn't let it be in his head. If it was, he would rip it out into reality himself, because goddamn it, he really wanted to kiss Dave. He wanted to kiss Dave and there was no way out of it, even if the idiot refused to make it easy for the both of them.

“Aren't you the one who's always telling me,” Dirk said carefully, unblinking, “that if I'm going to start something, I should always _finish the job_?”

Dave's pupils dilated, the ring of red shrinking to a sliver.

Dirk walked out like Dave had every night for the past week, and he didn't look back.

 

Weight pushed down on either side of his body, and Dirk couldn't stop the victory smirk if he tried. Dave crawled atop his brother, stretching every inch of himself to cover the younger boy. Hands pulled Dirk's arms up and away from his waist. Dirk could feel the container of lube Dave held when he joined their hands together above their heads.

“We need to talk,” he told Dirk, one hand sinking back to grip his knees, and pulling him up so his hard arousal pressed at just the right angle. Dirk held his breath and allowed his thighs to be wrapped tightly around the older Strider's waist, gasping when he let all his weight rest on that spot. Dave thrust into Dirk, grinding down experimentally, and he repeated his actions in time with each responding moan.

“You awake, bro?” Dave asked. He pressed his mouth to Dirks, slow but dirty, matching the way their bodies moved in junction. The friction was achingly, ridiculously good.

“Fuck yeah,” Dirk panted into Dave's mouth, pressing his hips right where he was needed. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

 


End file.
